OLD winter the churl is at last on the wing;
The heavens grow soft and serene,
And the trees, at the magical summons of Spring,
Are robed in fresh mantles of green.
The Zephyrs have banished the blasts of the north;
The bosom of earth is unsealed;
And our new Sabine women go cheerily forth
To labour all day in the field.
Their masculine garb and the length of their stride
Would surely make Romulus stare;
But their fathers already are feeling a pride
In their strength and their resolute air.
For gay Cytherea has wholly forsworn
The dances she formerly led,
And her playmates, the Nymphs and the Graces, forlorn
Of their Queen follow Ceres instead.
Producers of food must abandon the Muse—
I have done so for several weeks—
For I'm either engaged in discussing the news
Or in sowing my endive and leeks.
C. L. Graves.